


She Left On a Monday

by SilverMiko



Series: Sight Unseen [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake Relationship, His Last Vow, Molly Is More Than a Bit Not Good, Romance, Sex, Sherlock is definitely a Bit Not Good, Sherlolly - Freeform, Slow Burn, Vague bit of Janine/Sherlock, shags-a-lot holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 04:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11752080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverMiko/pseuds/SilverMiko
Summary: What started as an intent of apology for what happened at the Watsons' wedding ends with a bang, and the tension between Molly and Sherlock grows. But he's preoccupied with being a fake boyfriend, not faking a drug relapse, and one of his most nefarious foes yet. Funny thing, pressure points. But betrayal is another funny thing, coming from the people he least expects.(His Last Vow compliant)





	She Left On a Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Oh I'll just make this one short, she said. Man I'll just stop making these installments so long, she said.  
> Lies. All lies.   
> Smut ahead, you've been warned.

She could do this, Molly thought with a deep, clarifying breath, she could do this. 221B loomed before her taller than ever, uninviting as ever. She stood straight and steeled her nerves for the fiftieth time since walking out of Baker Street Station. She had one of her best dresses on, her hair looked good, she could do this.  
She would apologize for overstepping her boundaries and being a selfish cow at John and Mary’s wedding. She’d apologize for being upset with him. She’d apologize for the kiss he didn’t exactly object to. That still confused her but she pushed it from her mind, No, she would apologize, they’d go back to how things had always been. Status quo.  
She could do it. Or so she kept telling herself until Janine Hawkins strolled out of the front door, grinning and cheeks pink.  
“Oh Molly!” Janine said with squeak, noticing her.  
“Janine, hi, fancy meeting you here of all places.”  
“Oh well, you know…”  
“No, I don’t know,” Molly said with a high-pitched laugh.  
Why was she there? A case, surely. It couldn’t be anything other than a case, maybe she had met a bad sort and Sherlock was going to help her. They’d gotten on well at the wedding. That was completely logical. Yes, surely that was the case, a case.  
“Alright, you caught me but you can’t say anything, not even to Mary. Sherl and I are kind of a thing.”   
“A...thing?”  
“I know! Seems silly, given the kind of bloke he is and all, took me by surprise when he called me up for dinner.”  
“And how long have you two been a thing?”  
“Oh, just two weeks but enough for me to know he’s got really soft sheets,” Janine said with a wink. An actual wink.  
Could she be more of a cliche?  
“Wow...well, congratulations, I guess. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”  
“Thanks, don’t want to jinx it. Sorry, you were on your way up?”  
“Oh yes, just a bit of outstanding business.”  
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. You look cute today, by the way. Must have a date with that man of yours. Have fun!”  
With that, Janine walked away and any contrition Molly felt turned to ashes on her tongue.  
She practically took the stairs up two at a time, storming into Sherlock’s sitting room where the man himself sat, clearly in his mind palace, in his chair.  
“Holmes, you absolute ledge!”  
It took a moment, but suddenly he blinked and looked over to her.  
“Molly! When did you get he...did you just call me a ledge?” he asked, confused.  
“An absolute one, you bloody tosser!” she screeched.  
He pondered her for another moment, then sighed.  
“Ah, you ran into Janine outside then.”  
“I did. Apparently congratulations are in order, Sherlock Holmes takes a girlfriend. And here John always thought you didn’t have it in you.”  
It was a low blow for sure, but she wasn’t feeling terribly kind at the moment.  
“Before you continue this display I should inform you that I am courting Janine for a case.”  
“A case?”  
“Of course. Can’t go into more detail of course, you know national security and all, but really, Molly, you should know better.”  
A case? No, even he couldn’t be that much of a tosser? Could he?   
“So this is for the work? That’s all? It’s going pretty far for a case, it seems,” she said, shaking her head, “Christ Sherlock, if you were lonely you could have…”  
“What, rang you up for tea and sympathy? I’m not lonely and I wish everyone would get off it. I’m perfectly fine. ”  
“Oh yes, I forgot, alone is what protects you. Caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, blah blah blah. Don’t you ever tire of mimicking Mycroft? God forbid you let the cracks show in that posturing routine you show the world, the Great Sherlock Holmes completely above trivial things like missing his own best friend! Sometimes I wonder what made you like this.”  
“I made me,” he growled out.   
“A version of you anyway.”  
He prowled around her now, face harsh and eyes narrowed. Assessing with that cold logic he wielded like a rapier.  
“And I suppose you see the man theoretically hiding beneath it all? You see the real me?” he sneered.  
“I’ve always seen you, Sherlock.”  
‘But you see me.’  
‘I don’t count.’  
How so far away they were now from that distant memory of a moment in the lab she didn’t know then would be so tremendously significant.   
“And what is it you see, Hooper?”  
She felt her anger rise more as she sucked in a breath.  
“You choose to embrace cold logic over sentiment because you think it makes you work better. But that doesn’t mean it’s who you actually are. Oh yes, I’ve seen the worst of you, Sherlock Holmes, and you tricking that poor girl into thinking you like her is quite up there. You think feelings are trivial most of the time, and yet they’ve been to your benefit all along. It was John’s friendship that saved you from potentially killing yourself with that cabbie, Mrs. Hudson’s affections that keeps you fed and housed, your brother’s protection that lets you be above the law, you wouldn’t have a career without Greg’s help, and what about Moriarty? How did you beat him in the end? Not alone, it took the person who apparently mattered most. The last person anyone ever looks at. If I didn’t lo...didn’t care, where would you be?”  
Me, always me saving your life. Always here in the background.   
He didn’t respond.  
“You can be terrible, but I’ve also seen you at your very best. Not winning or solving a case, either. Do you honestly think I’d still give you the time of day or help you if all you were was a totally unfeeling arsehole? I get why you put up this front, this armor, but don’t pretend that’s all there is to you, Holmes. Or that I’m so bloody stupid I’m imaging this. After everything we’ve been through, you’ve forfeiting your right to lie to me.”

He was still, facing away from her, facing the window. God, it felt so much like the time she came over the day they solved crime. After a long moment he spun around, glaring at her.  
“Why are you here, Molly?”  
“Doesn’t matter anymore,” she replied, muttering.  
She was cross. Very cross. None of this was good.  
“Molly, you’re wearing a new dress designed to show off your legs and figure, your hair is down and styled, and you’re wearing lipstick. You didn’t come here just to pop by, not after no word for weeks. If you think because I let you kiss me…” he began, but she interrupted him.  
“No, you know what? I came here to apologize for what happened at the wedding, but consider it null and void. You aren’t an asshole, no, you choose to be, like you’re doing right now. But not everyone gets that, it’s ‘poor Molly, fancying such an overbearing dick, poor Molly left her fiancee for such a cold man.’ It’s what everyone’s thinking, hell Meena said as much when she told me off over Tom. Didn’t matter the man didn’t love me and it was never going to work out, no Molly Hooper is ruining her life pining for the unattainable Sherlock Holmes. Well, I’m not your fucking damsel in distress wallflower or some sad type out of a story. I’m sick of people not seeing me for who I am.”  
“I see you,” he replied, carefully.  
“Do you? Because I honestly wonder sometimes who it is you think you’re looking at.”  
“What do you want me to say?”  
“Nothing, it’d be a half truth at best. Forget it, just forget I was even here. Shouldn’t be too hard for you.”  
Molly began walking out the door and down the stairs, leaving Sherlock collapsed in his chair, clearly shook by the encounter. She got midway down the stairs before something in her just unwound. No, it wasn’t going to end here like this. And then she was turning around, stomping back up the stairs and slamming the door shut behind her and locking it.  
“Sod it,” she spat out.  
“Sod what?” he asked, tentatively.  
“If that’s what everyone thinks then sod it, if I’ve supposedly ruined my life over you, then I’m going to at least get something out of it for myself.”  
“Molly,” he warned, lowering his voice an octave. It didn’t work.  
She was at his chair in a few quick strides and in his lap even faster. When lips collided into his it was not sweet, nor shy. It was demanding and hungry. For once, just for bloody once, Molly was going to be the one to take after years over years of giving. It was wrong, she knew it, but as she raked her fingers through his curls and tugged it wasn’t as if he was pushing away. In fact, from the low, quiet growl that resounded from her throat, that she swallowed up with her kiss, it seemed he was not at all objecting. He didn’t push her away when his hands curled around her waist, pulling her closer. He didn’t push her away as she lifted herself off his lap slightly to unbuckle his trousers and pull them down enough to see that he was not wearing pants that day. How decidedly not posh.  
His hands were under her dress as her mouth was on his neck, biting. She would probably leave a mark. She probably didn’t care. From the way he moved against her, grinding into her, it didn’t seem like he cared either. His grip on her thighs would probably leave a mark, and she definitely did not care about that either. Anchoring one hand around his neck, she reached down, pushed her knickers aside, and sank down on him in one fell swoop.  
They both groaned, loudly, and then she was riding him like her life depending on him, both hands around his neck as he continued to hold her thighs, balancing her. At one point his head tilted back, and she saw his eyes were closed, mouth open slightly with heavy pants.   
Christ, he was beautiful. Always was, likely always would be.  
She was close, she could tell. It wasn’t going to be a drawn out encounter; this was quick and messy and God, it made her body sing in a way she couldn’t remember. It was when his eyes fell open, as she watched his face, those bright eyes locking on her and his low, deep voice rumbled one word, her name, “Molllyy.”  
At that moment, she fell apart as her climax overtook her and a drawn out blasphemy breathily passed her lips. He came a moment later, shuddering against her, inside her, as one hand moved to splay across her back and keep her in the place, the other loosening its grip on her thigh to simply rest there, almost caressing her skin.  
As the world started coming back into focus, several loud, gasping breaths later, the weight of it all washed over her.   
She had just shagged Sherlock Holmes, and in a manner that was entirely not one bit good. But for some reason it didn’t entirely surprise her that their first time, probably only time, would be a quick bout of angry sex. Perhaps it was always leading to this from the first time she’d met him and he had opened that stupid mouth of his. It was a bitter thought, draining whatever fleeting pleasure she’d felt before out of her system like rain into a gutter.  
She shifted back, adjusting her clothing. He parted his lips to speak, but she held a hand up.  
“Don’t, just...don’t.”  
She was sliding off his lap and out the door, her eyes never meeting his.

In the next moment she was gone like she had never been there, except for the trace physical evidence a few tissues would wipe away once Sherlock got up. But for now he sat stunned, trying to process what had just happened.  
He had been shagged, thoroughly and rather relentlessly, by Molly Hooper. It had been the opposite of logical, potentially disastrous for his case, and certainly couldn’t happen again until Magnussen was dealt with.   
Wait no. Not right, it wouldn’t happen again. Couldn’t.   
And he was fairly certain the next stage of his plan would make that a foregone conclusion. 

 

***

He was high again, and Christ she was livid. Perhaps that was why she snapped her gloves off so impatiently, why she practically spat out the question back to John.  
“Clean?”  
Perhaps it was why her hand smacked across his face. Once. Twice. She wasn’t sure how many times and she got right in face and demanded he apologize. To his friends, to her, and she knew her anger was more than just over his latest relapse She hadn’t missed how surprised he was at her raising a hand to him, and yet he’d made no move to stop her. He could have, he was stronger. But he’d let her hit him. She still couldn’t come to terms with her actions at Baker Street weeks before. She was mad at herself, mad at him, and angry that she knew to her bones they could never go back to how it was.   
She hated the silence that had stretched out between them, hated his silence and her own inability to even text him. To say sorry or that she wasn’t sorry, to even say something. But she was a coward these days who didn’t know what she wanted. No, she thought bitterly, that wasn’t really ever the problem. What she wanted was as impossible as a bird trying to love a fish.   
“Sorry your engagement’s over, though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.”  
God, he was terrible. So irrevocably impossible. And the worst part was she’d known him long enough to know he didn’t just mean because her ring would have cut his face. In any other situation it would have made her happy to hear that from him, but not today.  
“Stop it, just stop it!”   
Because one of them had to, because even though she was so infuriated she still fucking cared about this brilliantly idiotic man who seemed hellbent on burning the light out of him was going to get himself killed if he didn’t stop.  
Sherlock excused himself then, eventually taking his Baker Street entourage with him except for Mary, who lingered behind a moment.  
“Molly, are you alright?”  
She looked at Mary, and felt her tense expression drop. She was tired of it, just so tired.  
“No, I’m not. But that’s not important right now. Keep that bloody fool alive for me, will you?”  
Mary blinked, and nodded.  
“It’s a promise. Listen I know I can’t partake but if you ever need to get a drink I can throw back milk better than the rest of them while you have the fun stuff.”  
Molly smiled, and she almost meant the gesture too.  
“Consider it a rain check.”  
Mary nodded and left, and even though Molly knew her friend would keep their standing girls’ night date, Molly felt more alone than she had in awhile.  
Well, at least she still had Toby.

They continued ignoring each other, and Sherlock understood perfectly well why she kept her silence. She may have been the instigator in the last few events that had occurred between them, but he’d be stupid to think the blame lie entirely on her. He hadn’t helped, not really. He should have pushed her away, every time her lips came towards him. The moment she was in his lap, and it had gone too far. Or perhaps, really, had been a long time coming. He should have pushed her away many times, but he never seemed truly able to. Not really. Oh, he could say a mean word here and there, be dismissive but if there was one thing he utterly failed at it was properly rejecting Molly Hooper.  
He knew how to turn a person down, turn them away, but with her it was different. It was always different. He knew what a life devoid of Molly Hooper was like, and it was not a good one. But she couldn’t see that, of course, for all she did see. He’d made sure of it. Especially now, knowing what he’d heard about Magnussen.  
His ability to hone in on pressure points and manipulate them to the fullest.   
No, he could not and would not risk it. And so he’d suffer Molly’s scorn. It was like he had told John years ago, the very thing she’d thrown back in his face that day at Baker Street.  
Alone was what kept him safe, but this time alone would keep her safe. Keep all of them safe.  
And he’d suffer her disdain if it kept her out of danger. If only he could have said the same for him.  
Funny how things went these days, he thought, that night in Magnussen’s office. He wasn’t sure what hurt worse: the bullet ripping through his upper abdomen or the face of his shooter, devoid of emotion. He never saw this coming, there was always something.  
Mary, why? Who was she? But that was for another moment.   
First thing was first, survive. He retreated to the only safe place he knew, his Mind Palace. He went to the room that smelled of Clinique Happy and sunshine and gentle brilliance. Her room. Once again in some manner of speaking, Molly Hooper was going to save his life. Giving him instructions, leading him to the life-saving conclusion, once more helping him to fall. A fall this time that would hopefully not end in the death of Sherlock Holmes again.

***

She had been stitching up a cadaver when the phone rang. Oddly enough it was the trauma unit upstairs. Had they forgotten she was downstairs today? Probably another body for her, more paperwork, and a shift that felt never-ending. Still, she was grateful for the distraction from her otherwise messy, empty personal life. Binning her gloves, she picked up the phone after the sixth ring.  
“Hello, Dr. Hooper speaking.”  
“Dr. Hooper, we weren’t sure if you were here or not but you’re listed as the emergency contact for a Sherlock Holmes?”  
It was one of the nurses, Hardegan maybe. Newer, Irish, friendly.   
“I am, though whatever he’s gotten himself mixed up in you’re better off calling his colleague, Dr. John Watson.”  
She wasn’t in the mood for one of his scrapes, or worse, relapse. She couldn’t see that again. Never again. She still remembered the awful sound when his heart had stopped.  
“Dr. Hooper, I’m sorry he’s actually already here but he’s not Mr. Holmes’ contact. Mr. Holmes just arrived ten minutes ago, GSW to upper abdomen. Dr. Hooper, I’m sorry, you best come here.”  
GSW. Shot. Sherlock had been shot. And the last time she’d seen him she had been angry. Was that to be their last memory together?   
No. No. Nonononononono.  
Somehow she’d managed to hang up the phone and make it to the elevator rather calmly. In a daze, she walked into A&E where John sat in the waiting room outside of the surgery theater. God, he looked like utter shite.   
“John,” she called out, and he stood and hugged her, practically collapsing with the weight of her worry.  
“God, Molly, how did you know?”  
“The desk called me, I’m his emergency contact.”  
“What? You?”  
She sighed, was this really the time? It irked at her but no, it wasn’t time to get annoyed.  
“Well, I’ve known him for so long and all. He probably couldn’t be arsed to change it.”  
“Right,” John replied, tone bland.  
She sat him down, sliding into the seat next to him, fidgeting.  
“What happened?”  
“I don’t know, one minute he was having me stay with Janine, the next I heard glass shatter, heard a thump. When I went to check on Sherlock he was down.”  
“Janine was there? Start from the beginning.”  
And he told her, using Janine to get into Magnussen’s office (though Molly was sure John was glossing over something), Janine unconscious by the time they got there and clearly knocked out intentionally, Sherlock going alone to confront Magnussen, and then wham bam Sherlock down. It was then John slid into the familiar comfort of medical assessment, relaying the gunshot entry and possible damage.  
“I should have been there with him, Molls, I shouldn’t have..”  
“Hey, we both know how headstrong he is. It’s not your fault. I’m going to go to the theater observation room, do you want to come with me?”  
He looked down at his feet.  
“But I’m not...this isn’t…”  
“Once a Bart’s doc, always a Bart’s doc. Let’s go make sure those fancy surgeons do their job.”   
He nodded, letting her lead him even though he remembered the way from years and years ago when he was a young doctor roaming the halls before this place.   
“Have you called Mary?” she asked, wondering if this had been a good idea. Blood, so much blood staining darkly across their friend’s pale skin. He was sheet white and she could feel her nails digging into her palms and she clenched her fists in her coat pocket.  
“No, might be selfish but I wanted to know what news to give her.”  
“Not selfish at all.”  
No, selfish was pushing friendship past it’s bounds. Selfish was using the man fighting for his life below to fulfil some ill-fated fantasy of a relationship that could never be. Molly knew selfish all too well, enough to understand that John’s actions were so mild in comparison. They were trying to avoid cracking his ribs opens, God what a scar that would leave, he would absolutely hate it. The bullet was out but the bleeding persisted. And if he’d been on drugs the past couple of weeks, she knew what it meant: reduced liver and kidney functions. Weakened immune system.   
And then the worst sound permeated the air, a sound that had haunted her for weeks.  
A steady mechanical note, flatline.   
“Come on, Sherlock, come on don’t you dare…” John muttered under his breath.   
She could hear his words but he felt so far away. She pressed a hand against the glass, eyes unblinking as she watched the surgeons tried to defibrillate. She acutely remembered the feeling of the paddles under her hands, the jolt of the electricity, the sheer panic.  
“All your birthdays,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands.   
And here she thought she was done letting Sherlock break her heart, but no, he apparently had to outdo himself. She should be crying, but everything felt heavy and numb. It took her a long moment to realize John’s somber muttering had changed to a “yes!”  
To recognize the long mechanical note had resumed to a broken staccato. A heartbeat.   
Sherlock Holmes lived again.

Much later, after Mary had been called, Molly took up vigil by Sherlock’s bedside and had held onto his hand as if letting go meant he’d disappear. It was only after John insisted she get coffee and that she made her way to the canteen and decided she needed more than coffee. She took a shower, changed into the spare clothes she kept in her locker. It was the quickest shower of her life but it helped. She felt centered, practical, in better control. Little Miss Perfect, or a good pretense of her anyway. It was as she plaited her hair that her text alert pinged, it had been John.  
Sherlock was waking up.   
Her first instinct was to run back to that room, but she didn’t. Not yet. She couldn’t. So she texted John back, with some poppycock about practically collapsing in the shower and really in no state for a visit. She was going to kip off for a bit in her office before she fainted. With her hair done and fresh clothes on, she made the long, lonely trek back to her tiny office in the basement and curled up on her couch, willing sleep to come instead of staring at the faint flicker of fluorescent lighting bars.   
By some miracle, the sleep came. But it was not a good one.   
***

He felt awful, his side a dull ache only kept abated by the slow drip of morphine slushing through his veins. John had explained it, he’d been out the whole day. His heart had stopped on the table. Oh, and of course John would bring up how he wasn’t supposedly allowed to die again.   
But instead of some clever quip or snarky reply, the one word his opiate-addled brain could produce was, “Mary.”  
He was sure it confused John, who exited the room to likely call his wife. Perhaps he thought Sherlock wanted to see her.   
As he drifted in and out of a fleeting consciousness, floating in a thick pool of morphine, he was sure Mary had been there, four words repeated over and over, “Don’t you tell him.”  
Why Mary, why? He had liked her. He really had.   
It was hours later, days maybe, that he started coming back into himself and able to think. Able to speak.   
And naturally, that was when Janine felt fit to visit him. He must have been getting soft in his advancing age, because he actually felt that horrible, useless sensation: guilt. She hadn’t really been all that bad, and he had gotten on with her at the wedding.  
But Shags-a-Lot Holmes? 7 Times In Baker Street? Really?   
The hat was where it absolutely crossed the line though. He’d never get the press over the damn thing.   
But good for her, she had turned the situation to her advantage and he actually did wish her well. She had survived two egotistical bastards. Good on her.  
Still, she didn’t have to be a utter sadist and mess with him morphine. Christ, his side burned! But he needed to think, so he went to work lowering his dosage. He dove into his Mind Palace, remember the first time he and Mary had met.  
He’d seen it then, but ignored it. Liar. Liar. Liar.

A while later, he heard the scraping of his door open and there she was. Not the person he expected, but Molly. The person he had been waiting to see. She hadn’t come right away when he awoke, but John had said she had been there sitting with him for hours while he was out of it.  
She walked to sit in the chair next to him. For someone who had spent hours holding his hand, she was having an awfully hard time meeting his eyes. He couldn’t entirely blame her, but he was glad she was there.  
“I suppose, we’re talking now?” he asked, but they both knew it was an observation.  
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” she said, shakily, “you almost died! Of course I’m talking to you.”  
It was then she looked at him, her brown eyes large and luminous as ever.  
“I imagine a near death experience does put things into perspective, but usually for the person who almost died.”  
“Yes well, you and I aren’t very normal, are we?”  
Her hands were resting tentatively on the edge of his bed, the circles under her eyes dark and obvious. When had she last slept?  
It was surprising even to him when one of his hands slowly covered hers. Her skin was so warm against his cool flesh, so comforting.   
“No,” he said, throat still rough from intubation, “certainly not.”  
“Sherlock, I...about that day at your flat, I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” she said softly, biting her lip.   
That was not what he expected, at all. Perhaps he had expected they’d not talk about it, but then there she went again always surprising him. The odd thing was he wasn’t sure she should entirely apologize. For the words, maybe. For the actions? While not driven by the right motivation, he couldn’t deny the experience itself was...satisfying. More than so. He must have been making a face because color rose on her cheeks more.  
“I’m sorry that your first time was like that, me being angry and all. Not very well done and just I didn’t mean to use you like that, I mean I did, but I wasn’t thinking rationally and I just...”  
“It wasn’t my first time,” he replied, cutting off her anxious rambling.   
“What? It wasn’t?” she squeaked, blinking, “But you said I was your first and last kiss. I mean that was two years ago. I guess you and the Woman….?”  
“Nope,” he replied. Why did everyone think he and Irene Adler had taken their flirtation to another level? He really needed to start demanding editorial approval of John’s blog.  
“Then...when you were away?”  
“Uni.”  
“Wait, when we met?”  
“No, before that. Wanted to see what the big deal was and collect data.”  
He watched her huff, and roll her eyes slightly.  
“Of course you’d treat it like an experiment. Probably so clinical too, ‘oh yes, please fold yourself into this position and don’t be alarmed when I keep track of the time it takes to reach completion. No no, no cuddling, time for notes.’ I just thought, you know.”  
“That I was a virgin because you’re the first and last person I’ve kissed in an eleven year span?”  
“Yes?”   
“Shagging is one thing, Molly, kissing is another. It’s more intimate.”  
That seemed to take her off guard, from the way she stared, and how her mouth worked as she processed his words. But surely she understood the difference.   
“But you’ve let me kiss you,” she said, face screwed up in pondering his logic.  
Oh, bollocks. She would make that mental connection.   
“Yes well,” he said, looking away, removing his hand from hers, “I’ve known you for a long time.”  
“And you also know John.”  
Oh for the love of...was she teasing now?  
“Why does everyone bark up the wrong tree there? Are you writing one of those internet stories about us too?”  
“Oh, you mean like fanfiction? There’s stories of you two? Oh gosh, now I know what Mary and I are doing for our next girl’s night.”  
He winced, not replying. She didn’t need to know exactly who was responsible for him being there, not when Molly and Mary had become such good friends and Molly knew most every way a person could die and had access to scalpels. But why? Why had Mary done it? Why hadn’t she just done the smart thing?   
And why hadn’t he seen it sooner? He had, really, buried in the string of deductions. It was all there but he hadn’t completed the puzzle. He was trying to be kind, be better.  
Look where being nice got him, laid up in Bart’s with a hole in his upper abdomen but pleasantly buzzing thanks to morphine. It was dicy, putting an addict on opiates, but his wound wasn’t exactly a ‘put on a plaster and pop some paracetamol’ kind of thing.   
“Sherlock, I do need to ask you something, and it’s very important.”  
He looked at her, focusing again. She really did look exhausted, her blouse rumpled under her jumper, hair a mess. She looked like the best thing he’d seen in days. But he hoped she wasn’t going to ask him who shot him, it wasn’t his story to tell and he didn’t want to lie to her either. So he braced himself.  
“Seven times at Baker Street really, Shags-a-Lot Holmes?”  
He was so taken aback by that, he almost laughed except for the pain it would have caused. Instead he gave her a very put upon look.  
“I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.”  
Molly’s smile feel, and she looked down to where her hand held is.  
“I kind of knew that, but I guess I wanted to hear it from you. Not really your area, right?”  
He turned his hand over hers, clasping onto hers.  
“I think we both know that’s not entirely accurate these days.”  
He watched her bite her lip again, her thoughts practically screaming. She always thought so loud but it never actually bothered him. Even the small talk he had belittled was never really that bad, it was just there and familiar and it was only in the long absence of it that he truly realized he took it for granted.   
“We don’t have to talk about it. I really would prefer not to right now, all things considered,” she said quietly.   
He understood, this really wasn’t his forte and uncomfortable moments weren’t Molly’s either. She was likely worried hashing it out would break their tentative truce, perhaps that he’d be callous and dismissive. He really couldn’t blame her, and so instead of being cruel and defensive, he chose tactical necessity.  
“I need you to get me out of here and to your flat.”  
“Come again?”  
“I need a bolthole. I’ll explain later but it’s important.”  
“But you’re in no condition to leave! You could end up with massive internal bleeding.”  
“Well you’re a doctor as luck would have it.”  
“Oh, so you want me to do your post-mortem, then?”  
“Molly, please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” he said softly, eyes pleading.  
He could see the war waging in her as she rolled her eyes and sighed.  
“Can you walk?”  
“With a few more units of morphine I could probably fly.”  
“Not an option. Alright, I have an idea.” She left the room, coming back ten minutes later with a pair of scrubs and her large bag.   
“Change, quickly then.”  
He began take the IVs out, wincing as he tried to dislodge himself from the bed, his body fighting every motion and movement towards standing. Gingerly, he got out of bed only to find it brought on a massive head rush. She was at his side quickly, steadying him.  
“Easy, you’re still recovering from a massive trauma.”  
“You said quickly,” he muttered, slowly lifting the hospital gown over his head and wincing at the pain in his body from the hole in his chest. He tossed the garment to the floor and grabbed the scrubs from Molly, whose face was practically tomato red as she looked at the ceiling. At anywhere but him.  
“What is it?” he asked, confused by what was fascinating her above their heads.   
“You’re...I could have turned around, you know!”  
He arched an eyebrow at her.  
“Molly, we’re both adults and scientists, and more to the point we’ve had sex. Hardly the time to get modest.”  
“But we never saw each other naked!” she squeaked out.  
“Oh? You’re right. A pity. Turn around if you must.”  
A pity? Well, he supposed it was true. If he was going to experience the unpredictable occurrence of being shagged by Molly, it hadn’t done him much for learnings that they’d remain clothed. Or that it had been so brief. Above all things, even the dodgy motivation behind the encounter, the thing he found most regrettable, the only thing actually, was that it had only lasted the span of a few minutes. He had always considered sex more effort than it was worth, but perhaps with the right person, with the right variables, with a more vested interest…  
No time for those thoughts, not when it was still a matter of life and death at hand. Thankfully, Molly’s terse reply helped move things along. If she’d noticed his brief expression of lament at not seeing her naked, she didn’t let on.   
“Well not if you’re going to make fun of me,” she said, looking him in the eye and not one centimeter lower.  
“Or you could call a cab.”  
“Oh, you paying then?”  
“Ah...you don’t happen to know where my wallet is?”  
“No, you daft cow, it wasn’t in your coat.”  
“Ah, the salad drawer then. So as I said, can you call a cab?”  
“Nope, you’ll just have to escape via Uber.”  
He should be grateful she was helping him, but he couldn’t stop the scandalized expression on his face. From the stern look on hers, he did realize it would be wise to say no more.  
And so for the first (and bloody last) time, Sherlock Holmes took an Uber as they made their way back to Molly’s flat. 

“I swear to God, Sherlock, you owe me so much. Like not just ‘take away’ or something flimsy levels. We’re talking standing reservation of you as my plus one for parties or weddings when I don’t want to go alone or to a show. Good ones too.”  
He was propped up against her headboard in her bed, as she paced around her bedroom room changing into her night clothes, which would have been a sensible pajamas set save for the cutesy owls printed all over them. He supposed it was her emotional comedown or exhaustion or just no longer caring about pointless prudish sensibilities, but she hadn’t bothered to hide behind the closet door or go to the bathroom to change. But she did have the sense to keep her back to him. Not that he was interested in seeing her breasts right then. It really wasn’t the best time.   
And so, to distract himself, he made his usual brand of flippant remark.   
“And now I wish the bullet had taken me.”  
He heard harsh footfalls on the carpet and she was there by his side, glaring. Hopping onto the bed and grabbing his hand tightly. He let her.  
“Stop it. Don’t. Don’t you ever say that, I don’t care if you’re just being an ass. That is not better at all!”  
Her eyes were shimmering, and he instantly regretted the words. In retrospect, it had come across as if he was saying death was more preferable than spending time in her company.  
Quite a bit not good.  
“I’m sorry,” he said, not sure if he was apologize for his words, for needing her help, for even getting shot in the first place and almost dying, or all of it.  
She was sobbing now, body shaking as her hold on his hand tightened. It was the second time in their acquaintanceship that he’d seen her come apart like this, and it was just as awful as it had been years ago when her father was dying.  
“Sherlock,” she breathed through her gasping sobs, burying her face into his shoulder while somehow still keeping herself from pressing on his wound. He knew there was nothing he could say to make her feel better at the moment, so with his other arm on his good side he reached up to cup the side of her head, letting it stay on his shoulder, and he let his face rest on the top of her head, lips against the crown of her hair. Perhaps he had pressed a kiss there, perhaps it was the bone-deep wariness and pain setting in.  
The last thing he felt, before sliding into sleep, was her warmth by his side.   
It felt good.


End file.
